Not Necessarily Nuptials
by Lorelei Lee
Summary: John Watson had never really given much thought to the details of his wedding. But he was sure that he never thought of abandoning his bride at the altar and fleeing in a hail of gunfire on the back of a motorcycle driven by his supposedly dead best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Not in a million years. That didn't stop it from happening.
1. The Nervous Bachelor

This story is a translation of my german fanfic "Hochzeit mit Hindernissen".

The one and only SwissMiss (on Ao3) was so kind ot translate this story into English. Thank you my dear! Thank you so very much for your work!

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Not Necessarily Nuptials

Chapter 1: The Nervous Bachelor

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The chapel, situated in one of London's outer boroughs, was simple and quaint. The altar in the semicircular apse was decorated with sprays of red and white flowers. John had been told they were gladiolas. Mary loved gladiolas.

The dark oak panelling on the walls gleamed as if newly polished. Mrs Hudson had pronounced the overall atmosphere oppressive, with the waist-high wainscoting, wooden ceiling and pews all fashioned out of the same dark brown, nearly black wood, but today, the sun was streaming through the stained glass of the narrow, arched windows, splashing colourful reflections across the wood, the white, pillar-lined walls, and the uneven stone floors, worn down by generations of churchgoers.

John flinched slightly when a red spot appeared on the white pillar beside the altar.

_It's just the sun and the stained glass, John_, he tried to tell himself, but the memory wasn't easy to dismiss. Even after all those years. It was still there. Still demanding his attention. John concentrated on breathing in and out slowly through his nose.

Just a reflection. Just glass and light and sun. No laser sights. No snipers. No pool. No vest of explosives.

Just a church and a morning suit.

John ran a finger inside the unfamiliar stiff collar around his neck. Why did Mike have to make the knot in his tie so tight? He felt like he was wearing fancy dress. But Mary had insisted.

A white dress, long gloves and a veil for her; a black morning coat, grey pinstriped trousers, a white waistcoat and a silver-grey tie for him.

She hadn't allowed any discussion.

If Sherlock could see him now... he'd laugh himself silly.

John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

No. Not today. For once, just for today, he didn't want to think about Sherlock. Today he wanted to start a new chapter in his life. Today he wanted to gain closure on the grief and the pain and the hole that Sherlock had left behind. He wanted to let the past rest in peace. He wanted peace for himself.

And maybe ... in a couple of years ... a little house in the suburbs ... a little garden ... a child's bike standing by the door ... relatively regular work as a doctor.

Mary.

Yes. He was doing the right thing.

Mary was wonderful. She was the only woman who had really listened to him when he talked about Sherlock. Even after weeks, when any other woman would have lost interest and been disgusted by him and his stories and his grief – or at least bored stiff.

A slight tremor ran through his left hand. John sighed softly.

Since Sherlock ... since that day ... the tremor came and went of its own accord. Why was it acting up today, of all days? How was that going to look if the rings slipped out of his trembling grip and landed on the floor?

Mechanically, he pressed his lips together and made a fist, released it, repeated the action several times.

Better.

He looked around the church. There were several people he didn't recognise. But that was no wonder. Mary and he had also slipped into churches to sit in on strangers' weddings in order to get an idea of what to expect, and how they wanted to plan their own wedding. Some of the older ladies in the back row were probably members of the local congregation and never missed a service.

The more familiar faces were made up mainly of colleagues from work, the lads from rugby, and some of Mary's friends. Mrs Hudson was there too, of course, sitting in the first row and gripping a tissue that was already damp. And nothing had even happened yet.

His sister Harry, Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and Mike Stamford were also among the guests. In a fit of goodwill, John had invited Mycroft as well, but there had been no response aside from a bland congratulatory card, and he hadn't shown up in the church yet either. John didn't know whether to be happy about that or not.

When he turned his gaze toward the altar, he saw that the clergyman – dressed in white celebratory robes with red and gold embroidery – had finally arrived. Well, that was something at least. Mary would be there any moment. John had heard of having to wait for the bride to arrive. But never for the clergyman ... John had to stop himself from shaking his head in disapproval.

At least the man seemed to take his calling seriously. The way he was bent over the altar, his head bowed, deep in prayer...

Motion at the door. The organ started up. John turned around and watched as Mary, in a white bridal gown, her face hidden by a veil, walked toward him down the aisle.

John realised with a certain degree of finality that he was about to marry this woman. His collar seemed to become a little tighter, and his pulse sped up.

Did all grooms feel like this? John thought he should be more moved, feel more emotion or even joy.

But there was nothing. He had never felt so empty.

_Damnit, John! _he scolded himself. _You love this woman. The wedding's been set for over six months. It's too late to panic. It's just cold feet. It'll be fine!_

Mary, in the meantime, had taken her place at his side. John managed a smile. The clergyman had come over to them, and the bridal pair turned to face him.

A mocking smirk graced the clergyman's face. Full lips, with an almost absurdly exaggerated Cupid's bow. High cheekbones, glittering eyes, and dark curls.

"Hello, John."

Sherlock.

John's knees turned to jelly.

"No..." he gasped.

Mary looked curiously from one man to the other.

"Do you know each other? John, do you know..."

John couldn't manage any more than a hoarse whisper: "Sherlock." He felt the floor spinning under his feet.

Then there were shots. The organ music broke off. People screamed in panic.

"Terribly sorry, Mary," Sherlock said in a falsely sweet voice. "Unfortunately, John doesn't have time for sentiment today."

John felt Sherlock's steely grip on his hand, and as shots continued to ring out, he ran after him – past the altar to the side door leading into the sacristy.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**

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Here is a nice picture of a morning suit:

herrenausstatter . de / nutzwert / knigge / images / cutaway . jpg

(I spared John the top hat...)

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Cover for this story:

media . tumblr 0d9f21b83f88671239bd73def95d2dab / tumblr _ inline _ ms8dhdICOD1qz4rgp . jpg


	2. The Empty House

**_Chapter 2: The Empty House_**

When Sherlock – with John still hanging onto him - reached the sacristy, he first locked the door before releasing John's hand and tearing off the clergyman's robes.

John couldn't do anything more than stare at him numbly, but eventually he was able to hear something over the roaring in his ears and the din from back in the chapel: a muffled noise that sounded suspiciously like someone trying to scream through a gag.

He looked around the room they were in. It was as small and quaint as the chapel itself, and was likewise lined with the same dark wooden panelling. In one of the darkened corners, John made out a man sitting on a chair. He took a step closer and recognised the clergyman he and Mary had discussed the wedding service with. The man was dressed only in vest, pants, socks, and shoes. And he was tied to the chair, with a gag greatly hindering his ability to communicate.

"Oh my God," John groaned, whipping back around to Sherlock. "Have you gone completely mad? You can't just..." John had to stop at the sight of Sherlock removing the last vestment to reveal black leather motorcycle gear.

"I can and I did," Sherlock responded flatly. He deftly opened a cupboard and took out two motorcycle helmets.

John gulped when he saw how tight the leather sat over the lines of Sherlock's body, but then he shook his head firmly.

"Sherlock!" he cried in protest.

A woman's scream could be heard from outside. John felt himself go pale. How could he have forgot Mary?

"Mary!" he called out. He shot Sherlock a dirty look and stepped toward the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock snapped, grabbing him by the arm and holding him back.

"Sherlock!" John spat as he tried to tear himself free. "My wife is out there and I don't really care what you're doing or what your plans are. I'm going back out there and do my duty and protect her!"

Sherlock's lips pressed together into a thin line.

"She's not your wife. Not yet. At best, she's your fiancée," he hissed.

"And whose fault is that?"

"Mycroft will take care of her. She won't be harmed," Sherlock replied coolly, without acknowledging John's accusation.

"Mycroft?" John repeated in disbelief. "But..."

Just then, someone started hammering on the door to the sacristy.

"John! Quickly!" Sherlock whispered urgently and pressed one of the helmets into his hand.

"What... What's going on?" John asked.

"There's no time to explain," Sherlock said, his hand gripping John's arm even more firmly. "I need your help, John. Come with me."

Every trace of coldness had drained out of Sherlock's face, to be replaced with a soft, almost beseeching expression in his pale eyes. John noticed only now the dark rings under those fascinating eyes, and the thin, almost gaunt cheeks of his friend.

"Dammit," he cursed with feeling. The hammering against the door was getting louder. "Okay. Where to?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed with roguish delight for just a moment, then he picked up the second helmet.

"My motorcycle's outside."

Just as the door was about to give way under the heavy beating it was receiving, John chased after Sherlock out through a narrow side door into the church yard. On one side of them was the church, and opposite that was a high wall interrupted only by a tall, iron gate. The gate was locked with a heavy chain, and John wondered whether that was Sherlock's doing. The other two sides of the church yard were lined with low walls, on the other side of which was a cemetery so ancient that no one was buried there anymore.

While John struggled with his helmet, Sherlock mounted the motorcycle and turned the key in the ignition. The motor started with an impressive roar. John climbed hastily onto the seat behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around the slender body in front of him.

"Hold on tight!" he heard Sherlock say, and a moment later John realised the wisdom of that advice.

A quick glance over his shoulder told John that there were men running toward the gate. He couldn't tell whether they were friends or enemies. When the first few bullets whizzed by, though, John decided the evidence lay more heavily on the side of them being enemies.

"Sherlock, you're not going to..." But John's horrified protest fell on deaf ears, as Sherlock revved the engine so high that it screamed in protest.

When John saw that Sherlock was steering them toward a wooden plank, he realised that his friend had planned for this eventuality by setting up a ramp to help them over the cemetery wall.

"Oh no..." John groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't open them again until a rough jolt told him they were back on solid ground. But the zig-zag route they took over graves and around headstones and monuments, all to the tune of shots ringing out, convinced John to close his eyes again and dig his fingers even more firmly into Sherlock.

After a while, John felt Sherlock's head turn.

"You can open your eyes again."

The wind carried not only the words to John's ears, but also the tone they were spoken in, a mixture of taunting and indulgence. He decided to risk one eye.

They were driving along a road toward the city centre.

"Did we lose them?" John yelled over the noise from the engine, the traffic, and the wind.

"I think so – but just to be sure..."

John didn't hear the rest, but he understood: Sherlock was going to take a circuitous route.

"Where are we going?" John wanted to know when they stopped briefly for a red light.

"Out of London," came the curt answer as the light changed.

At some point, Sherlock got onto a radial road and they slowly left London behind them. John wondered how far they were going to go. It was already starting to get dark. He was vaguely curious about what time it was.

It had been around noon when they'd left the church ... no, John corrected himself – when they'd fled the church. But then he had to shake his head again.

It had been around noon when the friend he'd thought was dead kidnapped him from his own wedding.

Better.

But somehow John had the feeling he should be angrier than he actually was. A wedding could always be done over. But this... he chuckled softly. He wouldn't have missed this for anything in the world.

They seemed to be travelling toward Canterbury, but since Sherlock kept off the main highways and stuck to secondary roads, it was hard to say.

But finally, their journey – which had taken about twice as long as normal due to the scenic route – ended near the railroad tracks in Canterbury. Sherlock pulled up in front of a house that was the embodiment of the word _'condemned'_. There were several other houses on the same street, many of them empty, but a few appeared to be inhabited.

"Home, sweet home," Sherlock mocked as he took his helmet off.

John had to prise his sweaty fingers out of the folds of Sherlock's leather jacket, and tottered off the motorcycle on stiff legs. He took off his helmet as well and looked around.

"That... You're not serious," he choked out when he saw the blank windows and empty frames where the glass was missing completely.

"I have clothes for you upstairs. You'll feel better once you're not so overdressed," Sherlock said impassively. He unlocked the door to the house, then returned to the motorcycle. "Hold the door open," he told John.

"You're taking that thing into the house?" John asked, perplexed, when Sherlock started pushing the machine toward the door.

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. "Just hold the door open," he repeated, and all of a sudden he looked so tired that John didn't argue.

Once they were both inside the roomy entryway, Sherlock parked the motorcycle, checked the street outside once more, exhaled a sigh of relief, closed the door, and slid no less than three deadbolts into place, all of them looking brand new and very heavy-duty and expensive.

"The soundest door on the whole street," Sherlock answered John's unspoken query. "The ground-floor windows are also all secure."

"What now?" John asked.

"Now we go upstairs." Sherlock pointed toward a staircase at the end of the corridor. "You have questions."

"Understatement of the century," John said dryly, and followed Sherlock up the stairs. His left hand was steady as he reached for the banister.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued... Updates** **always on Monday!**


	3. The Chilled Soldier

Chapter 3:

The Chilled Soldier

Upon arriving upstairs, Sherlock opened a door and held it for John. John stepped past him into the room and stopped to look around. He heard Sherlock walk in behind him and close the door.

It was a pitiful hovel. Most of the walls were bare, with a few scraps of faded wallpaper that might have been modern thirty years ago still clinging in places. The two windows didn't do much to illuminate the space, the glass nearly opaque with dust and grime. Paint was peeling off the window frames.

Against the left-hand wall were a rickety table and a chair that didn't exactly inspire confidence. On the table itself was an old-fashioned petroleum lamp and a camping cooker with a gas cartridge. Beneath the windows, a mattress lay directly on the cheap linoleum floor. A pillow and a sleeping bag with a camouflage pattern were all that John could see in terms of bedding. Next to the door was a decrepit wardrobe without doors, where a few articles of clothing hung.

In the right-hand wall was a second doorway, whose door was likewise remarkable only in its absence. Through the opening, John could see into another room that seemed to be in a similar state to the one he was currently in, with the addition of a faucet sticking out of the wall, surrounded by cracked tiles in an atrocious style. Some dishes, pots, and a Thermos stood on the floor.

There were piles of newspapers in both rooms. It was the papers that made the big picture slowly come into focus for John.

"Cosy," John remarked dryly and turned around to face Sherlock.

To his surprise, Sherlock appeared to be embarrassed.

"I should have organised another chair..." he mumbled, waving his hand uncertainly as an invitation for John to sit down.

When John shook his head, Sherlock took the seat himself. It groaned ominously. John locked his hands behind his back and stared out the window, even though it was impossible to make anything out through the filth coating it.

Silence sank down over the two men. It wasn't the pleasant, friendly quiet that had often been present in the living room at Baker Street; rather, it was tense and uneasy.

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. John turned his head to look at him. Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession – an expression that would have been a sign of nervousness or uncertainty in anyone else – before he said in a monotone voice, "You have questions."

John moistened his lips briefly with his tongue. "What's going on here?" he asked abruptly.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing again in disbelief. "That's it? That... is your first question?"

Blond eyebrows twitched and John's shoulders lifted in a sign of apathy.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as well. "Obviously I've underestimated you..." He inspected John with interest, cocking his head to one side. "Or overestimated... depending."

"Obviously," John echoed coolly. "I mean... what else am I supposed to ask?" He didn't wait for an answer, though, continuing with: "I mean... based on the newspapers you've been here for at least two months and didn't think it necessary to inform me at any point during that time that you're not as dead as I'd been led to believe."

"John..."

But John didn't let him speak. The calm and composure he'd displayed up to this moment were rapidly vanishing.

"Two months! You've been squatting here for two months and didn't think it necessary... Did it have to be on my wedding day? Sherlock! Jesus! Of course... simply popping by my flat wouldn't have been dramatic enough!"

"John..."

"No, Sherlock! You're going to listen to me now! Do you have any idea what I've gone through..." John's voice cracked and he swallowed hard. All of a sudden, everything was there again – the anguish over Sherlock's death a nearly physical pain. The grief that had overwhelmed him without warning. The nightmares, the sleepless nights. The endless, tortuous and meaningless therapy sessions that he'd started going to again. Those terrible four months when he'd been reduced to using his cane again; knowing that it was psychosomatic hadn't made things any better. In fact, it had made things worse. But the worst part of all was the loneliness and the feeling of not having understood something. Not having said something. Not having done something. Anything... that might have averted all that misery.

John felt tears prickling in his eyes, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger against the lids to stop them. He hadn't cried in months and he wasn't about to start again now. He took a couple of deep breaths and then fixed Sherlock with a sharp look.

"Two years, Sherlock! Two fucking years!" he hurled at his friend.

"You're exaggerating as always, John," Sherlock contradicted him. "It was one year, eleven months, and nineteen days, to be precise."

John snorted. "And how many hours?" he asked with biting sarcasm.

"Eight," Sherlock answered smoothly.

That threw John a bit. "You... you counted them?"

"Each and every one," Sherlock replied, holding John's gaze steady.

John shook his head. Whether out of disbelief or confusion or something else entirely, he wasn't exactly sure. "Sherlock..." John groaned softly, before continuing in a more modulated tone: "What the hell were you thinking, kidnapping me from my own wedding?"

"It seemed to be a relatively elegant solution," Sherlock responded calmly. "By the way, your little outburst is the reaction I expected in the first place."

Exasperated, John ran both hands through his hair. "Elegant!" he spat. "You're completely insane!"

"Your morning suit _is_ rather elegant, actually..."

"Don't try and distract me," John gritted out.

"...even if I would have chosen a blue tie instead," Sherlock continued, unperturbed.

John looked down and rubbed the silver-grey tie between his fingers. "I wanted to, but..." He bit down angrily on his lip. "That's not the point!" he snapped.

_Beepbeep ... Beepbeep..._

"What is that?" John asked, bewildered.

"Text," Sherlock answered, already distracted. He quickly unzipped his leather jacket and took a mobile phone out of an inner pocket to read the message. "Dammit!" he cursed softly before looking up, directly into John's eyes. "I was afraid of something like this," he said in an apologetic tone. "I'm going to need to monopolise you for a few days. Moran got away."

"A few days?" John exclaimed, aghast. "You can't just..." But then he saw Sherlock's expression and fell silent. John had come face to face with more than one child soldier before, and it shook him to the core every time he saw the ancient eyes in one of those young faces.

Sherlock looked just like that at the moment.

"Sherlock..." John whispered, but bit down on his tongue before he could say something he was sure to regret later. Instead, he said: "Why don't you tell me what's really going on here?"

Sherlock gnawed on his lip briefly while he stared into the middle distance, thinking. "We should be fine here for the night," he said, more to himself than John. "But just to be safe, we should take turns on watch." His gaze focused on John. "Do you have your gun with you?"

"Do I..." John echoed tonelessly before breaking out in desperate laughter. At the sight of Sherlock's irritated expression, he only laughed harder. "No, Sherlock..." he answered breathlessly once he'd got himself halfway under control. "I don't tend to show up armed to my own wedding."

A fleeting - if uncomprehending - smile passed over Sherlock's lips. "Never mind. I have one," he said, then took a revolver out of his leather jacket and set it on the table.

"This Moran doesn't exactly seem to be a Boy Scout if he's even got you running around with a gun," John noted with curiosity. "It's really about time you let me know what's going on, don't you think?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. He seemed distracted and his gaze went past John into the distance.

"Moran was ... or rather: is Moriarty's right-hand man."

"But we agree that Moriarty's dead."

"Oh yes, without a doubt," Sherlock said as if in passing. "But Moran feels it's his calling to finish Moriarty's war. Even without the generalissimo himself – and he's been quite successful at it so far." His gaze passed unsteadily over John before settling on the floor. "Your wedding was the perfect trap for him. Or it would have been. Not even Lestrade could have botched it. It must have been Dimmock who bollixed it all up. What use are the dogsbodies when the brain of the operation is still at large?"

"Hold on... You used my wedding _on purpose_ to set a trap for Moran?" John reiterated incredulously.

Sherlock sighed. "And now we've arrived at the moment when you feel the urge to express your aggression towards me in a physical manner." He regarded John with a petulant sort of obstinacy. "If it's not too much trouble... right here." He tapped two fingers against his chin and tilted it slightly in John's direction. "Not on the nose if you can manage it... I'm probably going to need to drive tomorrow and it would be easier without a black eye."

"So you're saying my wedding was doomed from the start?" John cried, still outraged.

"From the moment you were so careless as to send Mycroft an invitation," Sherlock confirmed cheerfully at John's quick uptake.

"That's ... you ..." John grasped for words that wouldn't come. "I think I'd quite like to sit down now," he finally managed. Sherlock jumped up and offered the chair to John.

John collapsed onto it with complete disregard for the creaks of protest the chair issued, and buried his face in his hands.

"John?" Sherlock addressed him hesitantly. "John? What about that left hook?"

John looked back up, and when he saw Sherlock standing there, chewing nervously on his lower lip, he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

"You have no idea what you've done, do you?" John commented, his voice wavering.

Sherlock's lips curled in contempt. "A wedding can always be re-done."

When John heard Sherlock repeat his own words – the ones he'd thought to himself during the motorcycle ride – he gave up. He broke out in peals of laughter that became even more manic when he saw the vague smile on Sherlock's face that said he had no idea what John was laughing at. But then worry began to seep into his friend's expression.

"I think you should calm down now," Sherlock advised, which only resulted in a new, almost hysterical outburst on John's part. Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. "John!" he said in a more commanding tone. "We don't have time for this!" He crouched down in front of his friend and laid his hands on John's knees. "John... you should... You're freezing!" He looked John over with sudden concern.

John had calmed down somewhat, but was still giggling quietly. "It was the wind..." John managed to say between chuckles and a concerted effort at taking slow, easy breaths. "It wasn't... exactly warm... on the bike."

The look of concern turned to one of guilt.

"I should have thought to bring a second jacket," Sherlock muttered as he reached for John's hands. "And gloves." He dropped his gaze sheepishly and let go of John's hands. "You should change." He stood up and went to the wardrobe to fetch some clothes. "Here... put these on. I'll go downstairs and... get something to eat." And with that, he laid the bundle on the table and left.

As soon as he was gone, John's giggles vanished and he rubbed his hand over his teary eyes, exhausted. Those were not only tears of laughter.

"How can this be my life?" John asked the ceiling. But there was no response. He shivered unexpectedly and realised that Sherlock was right: he was completely chilled through.

"Must be the shock," he mumbled to himself and started to change.

His belated reaction was completely normal, given the circumstances, and yet he wondered why he hadn't noticed earlier how cold he was. All of a sudden, he could feel Sherlock's body in front of him again, the smell of leather in his nostrils, the soft creaking of the jacket when they leaned into a curve, the perfect harmony of their bodies through the motion.

Warmth flooded through John at the memory, but then he had to bite his lip in order to suppress the other feelings that simmered beneath the surface.

It had been so easy to indulge in certain emotions following Sherlock's death. Desires he'd never admitted nor articulated. It had been so tempting to tell himself that their relationship might have changed if they'd had more time. He hadn't hurt anyone with such thoughts, and it had helped to soothe some of the worst wounds a bit.

But now Sherlock was really back from the dead and they had each other again. They had time. John had got so used to having those more tender feelings for the _dead_ Sherlock that they now threatened to affect his behaviour toward the living one. And that could not happen. John knew that he had idealised Sherlock when he was dead, and now it was time for him to get used to reality again. He sighed.

It had been pleasant to allow himself those daydreams. But he knew Sherlock too well to assume that he might be ... _interested_. John chuckled softly. That would really be the height of absurdity.

Another shiver ran through his body as he stood there dressed only in pants and socks in the shabby room. He quickly pulled on the clothing items Sherlock had given him. Everything fit like a glove and was so similar to his usual style that he wondered if someone had broken into his flat and taken the jumper, jeans, and t-shirt from his dresser. But there were no other shoes and he did have to put his formal patent leather shoes back on, which stood out like a sore thumb against the other, more casual clothes.

When Sherlock returned a short time later, he had two tins and a packet of biscuits in his hand.

"Tea?" he said tersely on his way into the next room. "There's no heating to speak of, but a cup of tea..."

"...is better than nothing," John finished. "Hey – where'd you get the clothes from? You didn't send someone over to break into mine to get them, did you? Not that I recall owning an olive green jumper..."

John heard water running, and then Sherlock returned with two cups in one hand, each with a tea bag, and an aluminium pot filled with water in the other. He put the pot on the gas cooker and the cups on the table before lighting the cooker with a match.

"It should boil shortly," Sherlock said. "No, no one broke in. Mycroft... was friendly enough to provide a few articles of clothing."

John sat down on the chair again, while Sherlock bent over to sit cross-legged on the mattress.

"He forgot the shoes," John couldn't help remarking, which resulted in another guilty look from his friend. "So Mycroft knew you weren't dead?" John asked. He should have known. He was annoyed at himself, in fact, for not thinking of it earlier.

"Yes, he..." Sherlock began, but John interrupted.

"No, stop. Sherlock... Start at the beginning. Please. At the very beginning – and make it the version for idiots, all right?" John said with a pained smile. "I'm afraid otherwise I'm never going to know why my wedding turned into a shoot-out."

"Fine. The version for idiots." The ghost of a bitter smile passed across Sherlock's lips. "This is the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot..."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**

lyrical - sky . tumblr post / 15950973899 / sherlock - timeline - of - series - 1 - and - 2 - condensed - edition

Since Sherlock's staged suicide took place on 15 June, according to the above timeline, this story takes places on a day in May. At the end of May, to be exact.


	4. The Veiled Truth

**Chapter 4: The Veiled Truth**

"Wow..." John gaped open-mouthed at his friend when Sherlock finished his story. "So that's how you faked your death! That was... brilliant," John said, impressed. "Actually... I should really pop you one for this whole farce. But it's too clever. I... I don't know what to say." He leaned back in his chair.

Sherlock was still sitting cross-legged on the mattress and looking at John as if his words were a soothing rain shower that could make a blooming meadow arise out of a barren desert, as if John's undisguised fascination and admiration were a balm for his soul.

"You're not... upset?" he asked, strangely hesitant.

A short laugh rang out and John shook his head.

"I'm furious!" he cried. "Don't think I'll forgive you that easily." But his smile belayed his words, and Sherlock relaxed his pose minutely. "Which brings me to the question: why? Why did you have to fake your death? Why did you have to jump?"

Maybe it was just a figment of his imagination, or the diffuse light of the approaching dusk, but John had the feeling that Sherlock's expression changed from open and relieved to shuttered, almost stony.

"Ending my confrontation with Moriarty in that manner was always an option," Sherlock explained so straightforwardly that John almost suspected he'd practised it. "Our meeting on the roof ... we were being watched." John watched as Sherlock's gaze became empty; apparently he was returning to the roof in his mind and reliving the situation. "I didn't have any chance in the end... Moriarty had given the order to shoot if I didn't jump. And he ate a bullet so I couldn't take him hostage and force him to rescind the order..." Sherlock paused, and his eyes flickered fleetingly to John before returning to stare at nothing. "I had to jump. It was the only way to survive."

"But after that, Sherlock... afterwards..." John argued. "Was it still necessary..."

"It was a unique opportunity to destroy Moriarty's organisation, or rather, his _web_, without being disturbed," Sherlock replied. "Incognito and without any risk, as all of his people..."

"...thought you were dead," John completed the sentence. Sherlock nodded. "And now you're here because you did it."

"Correct," Sherlock exclaimed, pleased, but then his expression darkened again. "Or at least... very nearly. Moran – that is, Colonel Sebastian Moran – is the last one on my list. And Scotland Yard just let the man slip through their fingers, after I all but served him up to them on a silver platter!" Sherlock ranted.

John held up a hand to halt Sherlock's tirade.

"Wait, Sherlock. Not so fast. One thing at a time, all right?" John requested. "So you destroyed Moriarty's web?" Sherlock nodded. John found the term _'web'_ quite appropriate, seeing as Sherlock had called Moriarty a spider back during his trial. "All around the world?" Sherlock nodded again. "So they're all behind bars?"

"Not all," Sherlock said tightly, and John understood what was meant.

"Good," said John. For him, the topic was closed. "What about Moran?"

It was apparent that Sherlock was trying to slow down his racing thoughts and organise them in a way that would make sense for John.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," he finally began, in an almost formal manner. "Pretty much Moriarty's right-hand man. Extremely intelligent, ruthless, and tends to excesses of violence. It took me a long time to track him down, but in the end... No. It wasn't quite like that. I ... I wanted..." Sherlock broke off, swallowed, and then went on in such a calm, deliberate voice that John again suspected his friend had wanted to say something else altogether. However, as he became wrapped up in Sherlock's report, he forgot his misgivings.

"During my last mission in Istanbul... I may have become a bit careless. I don't know. Somehow certain circles got wind of a rumour that I was still alive... just as I got my first tip on Moran's location."

"So he knows you're alive," John summarised.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, his shining eyes betraying just how strongly affected he was by the memory of the challenges he'd faced. How he must have enjoyed the chase. "I approached him bit by painstaking bit, constantly aware that he was playing a game of cat-and-mouse with me, trying to lure me into a trap just as I was doing my best to run him down. Finally all of my sources whispered the same word: London."

"Why would he do that?" John wondered. "I thought he'd followed you here."

"Quite the opposite. He wanted me here – where he could finally lure me out into the open."

"With what?" John exclaimed in surprise, but then a light went on. "My wedding," he groaned.

"Precisely," Sherlock agreed dispassionately. "The threat remained unspoken, but it was clear that should he not be able to get his hands on me, he would gain his ... well, his _recompense_, through you. He knew that would likewise..." Sherlock broke off again and bit down on his lip. "I don't know how he found out about your wedding. I only found out through Mycroft, and from that point on, Moran's deliberations and plans were an open book to me. It was easy to see what he was thinking, and..."

"Was all of this really necessary?" John interrupted, annoyed. "Didn't either you or your genius brother think of maybe warning me?"

"Mycroft thought it would be better to inform you, but..."

"But not _you_!" John yelled, furious. "I really should slosh you! God dammit!"

"You should eat something," Sherlock remarked with a mild concern that only served to infuriate John further. "You tend to lose your temper when you're hungry. I have ravioli in tomato sauce, or beans in tomato sauce." Sherlock indicated the two tins he'd brought in earlier.

At first John wanted to deny how hungry he was, but just as he was about to speak, his stomach growled in a very pointed manner. He closed his eyes for a moment in irritation and felt his cheeks turning red both from anger and from being caught out.

"You do realise I could be eating salmon on a bed of saffron rice right now if it weren't for you? And instead I'm getting tinned ravioli!" John ranted.

"The ravioli then? Good choice. Pasta is easier to digest than legumes," Sherlock answered impassively before standing up, picking up the tin and going into the next room.

John heard him clattering around with the dishes. He returned after a few moments with the ravioli in an aluminium pot, which he set down on the table. Then he lit the gas cooker and set the pot on it. He took a spoon out of his pocket and handed it to John.

"Here. Stir it a bit so it doesn't burn."

John gave in to the inevitable. It wouldn't do any good to yell at Sherlock anyway.

"Don't you have another spoon?" was all he asked.

"I'm not eating."

"You should. There's enough here for two."

An indulgent smile was directed at John.

"I'm in the middle of a case. I never eat during a case. You know that, John."

With a quiet sigh, John stirred the ravioli while Sherlock pulled some wooden boards out from behind the wardrobe and put them up over the windows. Once that was taken care of, he lit the petroleum lamp.

"Is all of that really necessary?" John asked, inclining his head toward the windows.

"I can't be careful enough," Sherlock answered.

"So Mycroft knew you were alive?" John changed the topic abruptly.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved up in a bitter-disdainful curl.

"An unavoidable necessity," he confirmed. "I needed money, papers, alternate identities... Only Mycroft could obtain those for me. I admit there were other alternatives, but at least I knew I could rely on his discretion. He fed me information and... when I returned, he recommended this hideout. He can't monitor it – that would be too conspicuous – but I'm relatively safe here."

"So Mycroft took care of everything? The motorcycle, the gun..."

"Yes, he did me the favour," Sherlock remarked acidly. "He'll call it back in sooner or later."

John grinned.

"Don't make any deals on account of my clothes," he advised.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

"Why? Is there anything wrong with them?"

"No, they fit fine – which is how I knew that _you_ couldn't have bought them. You don't have any sense of clothing sizes," John teased his friend.

"Why should I?" Sherlock returned in the same manner. "Either they fit or they don't. I don't have any space in my brain to store collar sizes."

The grin on John's face deepened. "I know... But I also know that you have a better eye for colour than your dear brother. You never would have picked an olive green jumper for me."

Sherlock pulled a somewhat disgusted face, but then he smiled. "I told him specifically to buy something in blue or purple."

John shook his head, laughing, and Sherlock sat back down on the mattress.

The tomato sauce burbled gently on the cooker. John turned off the flame, took the pot off the cooker and started to eat.

"Who else knew you were alive?" he finally asked between bites. It was the one question he'd been burning to ask.

"No one."

John looked up in surprise. "But you said Lestrade and Dimmock..."

"Mycroft organised everything. I wasn't involved." His eyes widened briefly. "Oh, John... You didn't think you were the last one I told?"

"Well," John said. He sank his eyes and continued eating the ravioli with dogged bashfulness.

Silence fell over the two men for a moment, until Sherlock cleared his throat. "You wanted to know why it had to be your wedding."

As John was still chewing, he just nodded and watched Sherlock expectantly.

"It was so elegant," Sherlock remarked.

John nearly choked at those words and ended up in a coughing fit.

"Elegant?" he gasped, upset. "_Elegant_?"

"Yes, _elegant_!" Sherlock retorted. "Moran and I ... we both wanted to trap each other. A church was the perfect place for it. Limited number of entrances and exits, easily secured... Windows can be discounted as a route of escape or attack. The wedding guests... ideal camouflage for both the police and assassins. And a..."

"All right, all right," John gritted out. "Just say it."

"A perfect bait," Sherlock finished with a soft sigh. "You were the perfect stakes for this game. Very, very high stakes. At least for me." Sherlock almost whispered the last few words, but John heard them anyway. He felt warmth flooding his face again.

"As I said," Sherlock continued in a normal voice. "Mycroft set it all up. He let it be known that I would be at the ceremony, and instructed Scotland Yard accordingly. It should have worked! But Moran is very clever. I was at the church. He wasn't. He must have been waiting outside, if he was there at all, which I'm beginning to doubt. Not even Dimmock – he was in charge of securing the perimeter – could have been so stupid. Moran probably only sent his henchmen. He won't be particularly pleased that the entire band is in custody." A grim smile of satisfaction appeared on Sherlock's face. "Mycroft also made sure that Mary..."

"Oh my God! Mary!" John shouted in horror and jumped up from his chair. "Where is she? Is she all right?"

Sherlock gave him a derisive look. "I already told you back in the sacristy that Mycroft was taking personal charge..."

"Personal? He wasn't even there!"

"Yes, he was," Sherlock corrected him calmly. "Once again, you saw but did not observe. As always," he concluded dryly.

"How in the world do you know she's all right?" John yelled. "I want to talk to her now. Give me your phone!" He held out his hand in demand.

"I know she's fine because Mycroft said so in his text," Sherlock said in a stand-offish manner.

"You had... You knew..." John stared at him, stunned. "Why didn't you say so?"

"You didn't ask," Sherlock answered simply.

That comment was like being doused with a bucket full of cold water. John fell silent immediately. His knees shook and he collapsed back down onto the rickety chair.

"You should go to sleep now," Sherlock remarked coolly as he stood. "There's a toilet in the hall that more or less works. The faucet in the next room is also intact. There's a second toothbrush somewhere in the cupboard. You'll find soap there too... However, you'll have to wash over the bucket that's there. You can empty it in the toilet. At the end of the hall is a window that looks out on the entire back end of the property. The front side of the house is secure enough, so we'll only need to watch the back. I'll take the first watch. I'll wake you up when it's your turn."

John didn't hear much of what Sherlock was saying. His thoughts were with his wife – no, his bride, whom he'd left standing at the altar. If it hadn't been for Sherlock... He felt awful. His gaze wandered to the meagre sleeping place prepared for him. If it hadn't been for Sherlock, he would be married now, tipsy on champagne and on the way to the Savoy, where he'd reserved the honeymoon suite for the night. He would carry his wife over the threshold, they would kiss, and he'd try to open the zip on the back of her dress. She would laugh at his fumbling efforts and help him... then he would undress her ... all but her veil, perhaps, and then... rose petals on the bed... silken sheets...

Unexpectedly, John sprang up from the chair. His fist hit Sherlock in the face, causing Sherlock to stagger and then fall to the ground.

"What... John?" Sherlock mumbled, dazed, his pale eyes open wide. He felt his chin tenderly with one hand. A small drop of blood welled up in the corner of his mouth, John noted with grim satisfaction.

"There's your left hook!" John spat as he stood over Sherlock, breathing heavily. "You bastard, you ruined my wedding night!"

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**

* * *

I'm so sorry... I weaseled my way out of an explanation of the Reichenbach Fall. My powers of fiction fail miserably on that point.


	5. The Blue Négligée

Chapter 5: The Blue Négligée

Sherlock dropped his hand from his chin and looked at John with a complete lack of understanding.

"Wedding night? And for that..."

John cut him off rudely. "I should have known you wouldn't understand," he snarled.

Sherlock struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, but remained lying on the floor. "My goodness, John – the way you're acting, you'd think you were missing out on a deflowering," he replied in a tone that matched John's for derisiveness.

John snorted. "Shows how much you know!" he hurled at him, although he couldn't completely suppress his embarrassment at Sherlock's words, which had – as ever – hit the nail on the head (or at least close enough).

"What? You... you're not saying..." Nonplussed, the words escaped Sherlock's lips before his eyes slid over John's face and body with their usual familiarity. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, Sherlock's forehead creased and he sat up, pulling his knees in and wrapping his arms around them. "John, no matter what she may have told you, she's certainly not a virgin."

"I know that!" John hissed out between gritted teeth.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Then I don't understand all the fuss." He shook his head slowly.

John ran his hand through his hair. Mary ... Sherlock ... It was all too much. "She was going to buy a blue négligée," he blurted out. And then wished he could bite his tongue off.

"Blue," Sherlock repeated dryly.

"Yes, blue ... because of ... something old, something new... you know," John said, somewhat helplessly. Why in the world had he started in on this?

"Aha," said Sherlock, unimpressed. "Still, nothing more than the usual would have occurred between the two of you. She certainly has a sufficient handle on your repertoire after a year."

John didn't say anything, but he felt the blood rising to his face. He turned his back to Sherlock, but apparently not fast enough.

"Wait..." Sherlock said slowly, and John heard him stand up. "Do you mean to say ... that you never had...?"

John thought he should probably be grateful that Sherlock didn't end that sentence, allowing the insinuation to suffice. Because he probably would have smacked him again if he'd used the word _'intercourse'_. He tried to regain his composure and turned back around.

"We wanted to wait," John explained with what he hoped was quiet dignity. "Exactly for that reason, because we both have a certain ... past ... Waiting for it was supposed to make it something special."

Both of Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" John replied, making a concerted effort to remain calm.

"No," Sherlock said soberly. "I was really gone too long," he added, shaking his head. "It's possible she wanted to wait, but you? That's not the John Hamish Watson I know. I wonder how she convinced you."

"People change," John said stiffly. "She didn't need to convince me. We agreed!"

Sherlock snorted contemptuously and muttered something that sounded like _'Right_.' But John wasn't really paying attention. His thoughts were wandering again ... back to the church, the would-be dinner, the wedding night he was missing.

"Oh, no," he then said under his breath, with a hint of panic.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"The champagne reception ... Although... the bottles haven't been opened yet... maybe we can return them. But the food... we won't be able to cancel the order at this point," John said, mostly to himself, before looking at Sherlock. "Do you think anyone thought of at least cancelling the hotel room for tonight?"

"I've no idea." Sherlock appeared thrown off by the question. "Why is that so important?"

"All that money ... all for nothing," John groaned. "I don't even want to think about it."

"Oh, that," Sherlock said, then cleared this throat. "I believe Mycroft would enjoy ... well, perhaps not enjoy ... but he won't allow you to suffer any financial setbacks for helping me." He bit his lip self-consciously. "Just tell me how much it is. Mycroft will take care of it."

Somewhat overwhelmed by Sherlock's awkward generosity, John smiled softly.

"That's nice of... It's not necessary – won't be necessary," John declined the offer. "The bills ... Mary wanted to take care of everything."

"Mary?" Sherlock's voice sounded somewhat harsh.

"Yes, Mary ... she's..."

A hard, metallic glint appeared in Sherlock's eyes. "Oh, I see. Dear Mary is rich. You caught yourself a wealthy woman. Well done, John! This entire wedding _did_ seem a bit extravagant for your paycheck. All Mary's tastes, I presume? From the colour of your tie to the dessert. You won't have had much of a say in the entire affair. But that's the price _you_ had to pay."

"No, it wasn't like that," John tried to defend himself, both appalled and affronted that Sherlock could take him for a skirt-chaser and a gold-digger. "When we met, she wasn't ... She inherited everything. An uncle..."

"Then she'll be able to set you up with a cosy little private practice, won't she?" Sherlock remarked with a biting chill in his voice. "So that you have a regular income and won't have time for solving questionable cases with your – somewhat disreputable – former flatmate. That's no _hobby_ for a grown man."

At first, John's mouth went dry. Then he gathered himself together enough to hurl at his friend: "I should chin you again for that! You are such an arse sometimes! I don't even know why I'm still here!"

"I can tell you that," Sherlock said in a very quiet but still scornfully cool voice. "There are two reasons. First: you know very well that you would be a walking target out there without me – and your precious Mary too. You cannot vouch for either your safety or hers on your own. And second: you're here because you want to be." And with that, he picked up the gun from the table, turned on his heel, and left the room before John could think of a reply.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

At the same time in London, in an office at Scotland Yard, a scene was unfolding that defied all description.

Mary Morstan, still wearing her bridal gown – although without the veil – was standing in front of a desk, seething with rage and shooting daggers at Mycroft Holmes, who had taken up a post near the door. All of the blinds were carefully lowered, and a man in a dark suit was blocking the door. Although his attire looked like that of a chauffeur, his attitude was more that of a bodyguard.

"I want to speak to John _immediately_!" Mary screeched, and actually went so far as to stamp her foot in a very unladylike manner. "Give me your phone right now!" Prepared to do anything in her power, she stalked over to Mycroft, who paled, stuffed his mobile into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, and held out a hand to ward her off. He considered whether it would be déclassé to use his umbrella to keep the furious bride away, but decided against it. At least for the time being.

"My dear lady..." he attempted to soothe her.

Mary's eyes narrowed to slits. "I shudder at the thought of what you would have done to me if I weren't your _'dear lady'_!"

Mycroft blinked in surprise. It was really quite astounding how loud a voice such a petite, delicate person could have.

"It's all for your protection," Mycroft intoned.

"My protection!" Mary repeated scornfully. "So my _protection_ demanded that your gorilla throw me to the ground? What would you have done if you didn't think so _'dearly'_ of me? Would he have tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes?"

"Of course not," Mycroft deflected the accusation, even as he felt the first beads of sweat gathering on his brow. "I can assure you..."

"Phone," Mary demanded abruptly, gesturing with the fingers of her outstretched hand. "Now."

"I'm afraid I am unable to fulfill that request. Any contact with my brother is subject to the strictest..."

"You just spoke to him!"

"I sent him a text message, and he replied with another text, that's all. I..."

Mary interrupted again. "I don't care. I want to speak to my husband. Now!"

"Your fiancé," Mycroft corrected her automatically, only to wish one second later he'd held his tongue.

A stream of furious invective poured over him, the main gist of which was that it was entirely his fault that John wasn't her husband yet.

Never before had Mycroft been so grateful for Detective Inspector Lestrade's appearance as he was at the moment, for as soon as he entered the room, Mary's attention was diverted from Mycroft to the inspector.

"Gregory," she beamed at him, and once again, Mycroft was impressed by the female capacity to change moods as quickly as politicians changed their opinions.

"Can we finally begin transporting Miss Morstan to the safe house?" Mycroft spoke up before things got completely off track.

Lestrade glanced over at him. "In fifteen minutes," he answered briefly before turning to Mary, who had stretched both hands out to him. He took them and said, "Mary ... is there anything I can do for you? I know you must feel awful. I wish I could have tipped you off, but..."

"It's fine," Mary brushed aside the apology. "But you can do something for me now." She pouted prettily. "Mr Holmes here will simply not allow me to ring John."

"Well, I think one call should be..." Lestrade looked uncertainly over at Mycroft.

"No, Inspector," Mycroft said firmly. "I already told her that John is doing quite well."

"How can he be doing well if he isn't here with me?" Mary interposed, upset.

"You know..." Lestrade said apologetically, "he's with Sherlock ... and doing what he loves ... helping Sherlock solve sticky cases."

"No, no... I don't think so," Mary objected with scepticism. "John is so... domestic."

Lestrade sighed. "Not when Sherlock's around. You knew that. You read his blog, he told you about everything..."

"Yes, but..." Mary seemed unsure. "Surely there was a certain amount of poetic license involved."

"Not really," Lestrade replied contritely, and Mycroft murmured as well, "Not at all."

Mary looked from one man to the other and blinked. "But then... is it always going to be like this?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Probably. I really thought you knew."

Mary pulled her hands out of Lestrade's, looked over at Mycroft and asked softly, "Just one phone call?"

Mycroft shook his head decisively. "Too dangerous."

She made a small, helpless gesture and nodded in defeat.

"Lestrade?" Mycroft prompted.

"Yeah," the inspector nodded. "I'll go with her and stay the night."

"John will certainly appreciate that," Mycroft said politely.

"John doesn't know what a bloody lucky dog he is. Mary is really..." Lestrade cleared his throat. "I mean, there are plenty of women who'd be breaking down in hysterics in a situation like this... but not her."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "She wanted to lynch me."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

As soon as John crawled, fully dressed, into the sleeping bag following a quick once-over with a wet flannel, he thought of all the retorts he should have slung at Sherlock. The only catch was ... every single word of them would have been a lie.

It was true: his opinion really hadn't often been sought when it came to the wedding plans. He'd said something a couple of times without being asked, but in the end everything had ended up the way Mary wanted it. He'd let it go because he thought that was the way things were supposed to go. Wasn't the wedding mostly for the bride? With the bridegroom more or less a necessary evil? A prop at best?

Still, Sherlock's remarks nagged at him. And even though he was still quite angry with his friend at the moment, he had to admit that Sherlock had put his finger directly on an open wound with his final words.

He was here with Sherlock because he wanted to be. His place was at Sherlock's side. As his anger turned and directed itself inward, John ground his teeth and fought with the sleeping bag to find a halfway comfortable position on the mattress. Why did Sherlock always have to be so bloody right all the time? The sodding bastard! Why was it always so easy for him to see right through people?

As John considered the question of why such an intelligent and gifted man would even want a schmuck like him at his side, and how Sherlock had managed to appear so fragile in his almost military-style leather gear, he drifted off into a light doze.

He was used to dropping off on command from the army, and as such the current circumstances posed no great challenge to his ability to rest whenever the opportunity presented itself. However, his sleep in those cases was so light that even the slightest noise would wake him and put him in a state of high alert. And this night was no different.

Before he'd even really registered what had woken him, he was sitting bolt upright on the mattress and trying to see through the nearly pitch black darkness.

"It's just me," Sherlock's deep voice sounded from the vicinity of the doorway.

"Did something happen?" John asked, making an attempt to untangle himself from the sleeping bag.

"No... no. It's nothing," Sherlock answered, strangely hesitant, as he came closer. The weak yellow beam of a small torch ignited and cast the room in a dull glow. "The sun's about to come up."

"Why didn't you wake me?" John asked. "I was supposed to take over the watch."

Instead of answering, Sherlock lowered himself to the mattress so that he could look John in the eye. He set the torch on the floor, where it produced a minimal circle of light, just enough to illuminate the rest of the room enough so that John could somewhat make out his friend's face.

"I was thinking," Sherlock said, sounding so decisive that John began to get all sorts of ominous thoughts. What followed, though, was something he never would have expected.

"You're right," Sherlock continued flatly. "I cheated you out of your wedding and your wedding night. I think it therefore only fair that I compensate you – at least for the wedding night. I can't offer you my virginity, and I also can't offer you a blue négligée, but I..."

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John broke in, aghast. His heart was beating in his throat, his hands were icy, and his cheeks were burning.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, his expression showing traces of uncertainty.

"Sherlock!" John whispered in dismay. "Are you even aware of what you're suggesting?" The part of his brain where he'd thought his bisexuality safely tucked away was awakening, and a certain part of his body chose that particularly critical and inopportune moment to make known its emphatic interest in Sherlock's suggestion. But John seriously wondered if he weren't still asleep and dreaming. This couldn't be happening! He'd probably allowed himself to imagine scenarios like this once too often while Sherlock had been dead. And now it was coming back to bite him.

"Of course," Sherlock insisted with big, innocent eyes. "I've offered to serve as an outlet for your sexual frustration. You're going to be of no use at all in this state, and therefore a danger to both of us. It seemed to be a logical..."

"Sherlock!" John cried helplessly. "It doesn't work like... You're... You can't just offer sexual favours out of the blue as if they were sweets. We're friends!"

John was completely out of his depth. What in the world was going on? God, he wanted nothing more than to scream _'YES'_, tackle Sherlock and deal with his guilty conscience later.

But he was engaged ... as good as married ... he couldn't do that to Mary. No matter how tempting the idea was. It was too late. And if Sherlock's only reason was some quid pro quo logic, then he could happily do without such a dubious offer. Well, maybe not happily... but still, it was out of the question, unthinkable, impossible.

"I thought it was something friends would..." Sherlock started, but he didn't get any further.

"No, Sherlock! No way!" John hissed, and at his words Sherlock's face closed down as firmly as a Swiss bank vault. A feeling of loss arose in John, and he regretted his quick-tempered words. But what else could he have done? He didn't have any choice. Sherlock hadn't offered himself because he wanted John, and for that reason any further consideration was superfluous. John pressed his lips decisively together into a thin line and straightened his shoulders. He was going to stand by his rejection.

"It was just a thought," Sherlock said as if it didn't matter, and stood up. "Shall we go?"

"Go? Where?" John asked, his head starting to spin at the sudden change in topic.

"To our next hideout. Mycroft has arranged everything. We should finally be able to capture Moran there," Sherlock explained.

John could tell that the usual fervent excitement - a sign that the newest game was on - was missing from Sherlock's words.

A thousand words clamoured on the tip of his tongue to be spoken, but he swallowed them all down and asked instead, "Do we at least have time for a cup of coffee?"

A bewildered glance was briefly directed his way, but then the faint outline of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. "Of course. Although I don't think the instant swill I can offer you really deserves to be called _coffee_."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**


	6. Holmes Old Place

Chapter 6:

Holmes Old Place

After about an hour-long ride, the motorcycle brought them to a cabin in a forest in the back of beyond. John was puzzled as to how Sherlock had been able to find it without a GPS, as there was no road to speak of – the most he'd been able to make out was some kind of footpath along some stretches.

"Have you been here before?" he therefore asked once Sherlock had turned the engine off and they'd both dismounted.

"A while ago," Sherlock replied evasively, his expression distant.

John stopped rubbing his clammy hands together; he'd tried as far as possible to keep them inside the sleeves of his jumper and jacket.

"Is it yours?"

"My family's," Sherlock responded curtly, took his gloves off and strode to the door. He took a key out of his trouser pocket. The door squeaked on its hinges when he unlocked it, but seemed to open easily enough. Sherlock went in, and John followed him, curious.

The inside of the cabin was clean and tidy, if rather rustically, as such cabins tend to be. The main room contained a stove (luckily heated by a gas tank – no need to dust off any lumberjacking skills), a table, three chairs, a shelf, and an open sideboard with dishes and food; the walls were lined with wooden boards.

Two windows let in sunshine filtered through the tender leaves of the surrounding trees, casting greenish rectangles on the wooden floor. Opposite the front door were two more doors.

Sherlock headed for the right-hand one, pointing at the left-hand one as he went and saying, "Bedroom, and here..." He opened the door he had gone to. "... the toilet." A disgruntled snort sounded, and he closed the door with slightly more force than strictly necessary. "Still the old chemical toilet," he muttered peevishly and went to the bedroom.

"I don't suppose there's a shower here?" John asked, peeking in on the toilet himself. Not exactly luxurious, but he'd seen – and used – worse.

"If Mycroft had listened to me years ago and had one added..." Sherlock's voice drifted out from the bedroom. John followed him. "As it is, we'll have to make do with washing behind the house."

"Behind the house?" John asked, full of foreboding, and noted with a certain degree of relief – which he couldn't quite account for – the two single beds in the bedroom.

Sherlock pulled the curtains shut over the lone window in the room and turned to him.

"Yes, there's a well with a hand pump. You can either wash right there at the trough or you can bring the water in with the bucket and heat it on the stove."

"Not exactly the Ritz," John remarked dryly. "So, what now?"

"I'll go to the shed behind the house and try to get the generator up and running," Sherlock said as he came toward John, who was still standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

"We have electricity?" John asked, pleasantly surprised.

"Yes – which we should be grateful for, since my mobile needs to be recharged." Sherlock stopped in front of John, who was blocking the exit, and gave him a challenging look.

John knew that Sherlock wanted him to let him past, but he stayed where he was.

"And then?" he insisted.

"Then we wait. You can sleep in the meantime. I don't think anything will happen before morning," Sherlock answered impatiently.

John gave Sherlock an appraising look, then shoved his lower lip forward.

"Agreed on the generator," he concurred. "But if anyone's going to sleep, it's going to be you."

"John, I'm really not..." Sherlock objected, but he didn't get any further.

"You didn't get a wink last night. I've no idea what your plan is or what's supposed to happen here. I'm completely in the dark – as usual, mind you – and following along blindly!" John snapped at his friend, who, nonplussed, was actually letting him have his say, a minor miracle in and of itself. "But either you tell me everything or you go to sleep right now. It doesn't make any sense for you to collapse at any moment, and leave me up shit creek on my own because I have no idea what's..."

"All right, John," Sherlock interrupted him, amusement playing in his voice.

"What?" John said, bewildered.

"There's no reason to get yourself worked up any further. I'll recharge my mobile and then go to sleep." He took the gun out of his jacket and pressed it into John's hand. "Here. If you see anything unusual..."

"...I'll wake you," John finished the sentence.

"Oh no," Sherlock contradicted him cheerfully. "If you see anything unusual, shoot first. The shot should wake me up anyway."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

When, a few minutes later, the generator was running and Sherlock was lying on one of the beds in a t-shirt and leather trousers, John looked longingly at the mobile phone that was charging in an outlet next to the stove.

John struggled internally, but finally he went to the bedroom door – which had been left ajar – and opened it far enough to see Sherlock lying under the covers. Sherlock's eyes had been closed, but the small noise of the door being pushed open was enough to disturb his dozing.

"Sorry," John murmured self-consciously.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice thick and heavy with sleep.

"Could I possibly ... I'd like to call Mary," John said softly.

Despite his fatigue, Sherlock's pale eyes bored directly into John's soul.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock answered fuzzily. "You can call her tomorrow. In fact, it may even be a good thing if the call is intercepted ... he needs to know where to find us..." His eyelids fluttered closed in exhaustion.

"Okay, thanks," John whispered. He was about to withdraw when he heard Sherlock's voice – quiet, but clear.

"John?"

John stopped where he was; he saw that Sherlock's eyes were still closed.

"Yeah?"

"What... What is it about her?" Sherlock asked, lazy with sleep.

"She listened to me when I needed it," John answered somberly. "And never got tired of it."

A soft snoring came from the bed. John went back to the table and sat down on one of the chairs, where he kept watch for the next few hours and mulled over his life. He decided he didn't give a damn about the consequences and cursed, without reservation, each and every decision he'd ever made.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Sherlock awoke in the early evening and stumbled, his eyes sticky with sleep, into the cabin's main room, where he let himself collapse heavily onto one of the empty chairs. His hair was tousled, and John could see the imprint of the pillow on his cheek.

The desire to smooth down the unruly curls with his own hands was so overwhelming that John abruptly had to find something to distract him. He got up and put the kettle on the stove to boil.

"Coffee?"

Sherlock nodded sleepily and reached for his phone, which was now fully recharged. "Does the pump still work?"

John fiddled with the gas valve on the stove and finally got a flame to spring to life. "Yeah – worked fine. Squeaks a little, just like the door." He got two cups, a spoon, and the tin with instant coffee from the shelf. "Are you hungry? The supplies here all seem to be edible." While Sherlock had slept, John had used part of his time to take inventory. He set a box of sugar cubes on the table in front of Sherlock.

"As I said – Mycroft organized everything," Sherlock yawned and typed something on his phone. "You can cook whatever you want. I'm not eat..."

"Yes, you will!" John cut him off and passed him a cup of coffee. "You're going to eat something. You do realise you're completely undernourished?" John tapped playfully against the folds of Sherlock's wrinkled t-shirt and really did hit nothing but skin and bones.

"Unimportant," Sherlock growled, continuing to poke at his phone.

John sighed and sat down on the empty chair across from Sherlock. It was almost like being back at Baker Street. Sitting together at the table, quarrelling, each with a cuppa, Sherlock busy with something else, while John tried to fatten him up.

It gave John such a strong feeling of _déjà vu_ that it threatened to overwhelm him; at the same time, things were completely different.

Sherlock wasn't just thin; he was gaunt, like someone who had been wandering in the mountains for weeks without food. Despite having had several hours of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep, there were dark circles under his eyes. John had never seen his friend so exhausted and yet so thoroughly focussed. At the same time, he looked so young and fragile without the usual accessories of dressing gown or stylish suit, microscope or magnifying glass ... in his black leather trousers and the faded t-shirt he looked like a student who'd played computer games all night and was now cutting class.

A faint shadow of facial hair was visible on his almost youthful cheeks, causing John to rub a hand pensively over his own stubble. In contrast to Sherlock's peach fuzz, he had a pelt growing on his face. When was the last time he'd shaved?

"Is there a shaver here, or at least a razor blade?" John expressed his thoughts aloud.

Sherlock looked up from his phone with the slightly confused expression he always got when John bothered him with such tedious, banal aspects of life as food and clothing.

"We're about to set a trap for an internationally notorious sniper and you're worried about your beard?" Sherlock asked, with a certain degree of snappishness.

"If I'm going to be shot I'd like to do it without looking like a hobo," John replied, unmoved. "At least not if I can help it."

A reluctant grin passed over Sherlock's lips. One last tap and he laid his phone aside.

"I've missed your pragmatism," Sherlock admitted bluntly. "Unfortunately, I can't provide either a shaver or a blade. I'm afraid we're going to have to face death like real men."

John shrugged. "If we have to ... but then at the very least I'm not going to bite the dust on an empty stomach. And neither are you," he nipped any prospect of protest in the bud. "I'm opening up those two tins of chili con carne I found."

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, uncharacteristically docile.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

After dinner, as they perfunctorily washed the dishes, John wanted to know if there had been any news.

"You were tapping away at that thing for a pretty long time," he said, nodding at the phone.

"I wanted to know whether Moran had caught our trail yet," Sherlock said. He slung the tea towel over his shoulder, leaned back against the wall, and waited for John to scrape the rest of the burnt chili out of the bottom of the pot.

"Well? Has he?" John asked pointedly, then cursed and said slightly louder than he'd intended: "I swear, it's like pulling teeth!"

"I thought you already knew..."

"How long have you known me? You should know by now that I never know anything! Never!" John scolded him, waving the scrub brush around. "It's quite flattering that you think I'm as clever as you... But. I'm. Not!"

Sherlock's only reaction was a heavy sigh. "Fine, then here's the version for idiots and bloggers who would know better if they just made a little more effort."

"Too long for a book title," John grumbled, and gave up the fight with the burnt bits. "That has to soak overnight." He laid the scrub brush aside and prompted Sherlock, "All right. The long version."

A sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan escaped Sherlock's lips. "Fine... Moran is trying to kill me. As he is an excellent sniper, a firearm – preferably fired at the target from a great distance – will be his method of choice to send me across the River Styx. As I am aware of that, I have been trying for weeks to at least force him onto my choice of terrain." Sherlock clicked his tongue. "That has not proven to be an easy task. Moran is cold-blooded. And patient. If he isn't happy with the location I provide, he breaks the attack off, or doesn't even show up in the first place."

"Like at the church," John interjected.

"Like at the church," Sherlock agreed with a nod. "We could have had him there. Moran knew that... ergo, he passed up the chance at his trophy – me." Sherlock gnawed at his lower lip. "If this doesn't work..." His gaze went off into the distance for a moment before he came back to himself. "I know these woods. I wouldn't say quite like the back of my hand, but I used to come here often. And Mycroft has made sure that... Long story short, there will be a special unit present tonight – sharp-shooters and specialists in hand-to-hand combat. Half the woods will be monitored by video cameras. It has to work! It has to!"

John held his breath for a moment. There it was – the fire in Sherlock. In his eyes, in his gestures – and still, John had the sense that he was exhausted. As if all of his physical and mental reserves had been used up. As if ... his own fire, his own passion, had consumed him.

"So we're waiting here in the house for him?" John asked, making a concerted effort to remain businesslike in order not to let his worry show.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Not here. Too dangerous. There's a creek not far from here that flows through a ravine... a small clearing. It's the ideal spot. The best men from the unit will be waiting there, for us and for him. We'll be informed as soon as he sets foot in the forest, and then... then we'll have to draw him in that direction. Unless... we succeed in shutting him down before that. Which I consider a long shot, given the circumstances." He gave John an appraising look. "Well? Satisfied?"

John grinned crookedly. "Yeah. Everything's fantastic. We're basically a couple of sitting ducks, but that's nothing new where you're concerned."

As soon as John spoke, a genuine smile appeared on Sherlock's face, and John couldn't help returning it. It happened so rarely that Sherlock showed one of the gentler emotions, one that wasn't faked, that those moments always warmed John's heart.

"Thank you," Sherlock said softly, and took the tea towel from his shoulder.

John was struck by a sudden attack of self-consciousness, and he cast about for a neutral topic of conversation.

"So you used to come here a lot? With your parents?" he finally settled on.

A tight smile graced Sherlock's lips. "Not with my parents. But I did come here often as a child. With Mycroft and an uncle, who chaperoned us. Later..." He shrugged. "Later on, I used to come here on my own – with my first motor scooter ... and then with my first motorcycle..." Sherlock's voice drifted off, and his eyes flicked around the walls of the room until they stopped at a particular spot next to one of the windows.

"What did you do here?" John asked, unsuspecting. "Have parties with your friends? Listen to music your parents didn't like?"

Sherlock went to the window, presenting John with a perfect view of his friend's profile. To his surprise, he saw that Sherlock's expression had hardened.

"No. I studied wild bees at first. Later on I shot up cocaine."

Sherlock's words were so brusque and lacking in emotion that John was at a loss for words. When he finally recovered somewhat, he noticed that Sherlock was feeling along the edge of the window frame.

"You can't be serious!" John exclaimed.

A dark eyebrow rose. "You don't believe me?" Sherlock asked with the same dark undertone. His long fingers were still exploring; then John heard a click, and part of one of the wall boards swung outward. Sherlock reached into the space behind it, and drew out an old syringe, which he held out toward John.

"No drugs left, unfortunately."

John could only shake his head. "You know... every time I think I know you..." John couldn't finish the sentence. A burning look full of bitter longing hit him from his friend's familiar, pale eyes, and John shuddered.

Sherlock stepped toward John and lifted his hand, as if to touch him, but he broke off the gesture and let his arms hang down loosely beside his body. "Sometimes I don't know myself," he murmured hoarsely, and dipped his head. "I'll take the first watch."

John swallowed hard. His head was spinning, but the next words out of his mouth came automatically. "Fine. Wake me at midnight."

Sherlock nodded without looking up and sat down at the table, while John went into the bedroom without looking back.

He lay down fully clothed on one of the beds, only then noticing how exhausted he was. He yawned heartily, and it wasn't until he was halfway to falling asleep that he realised he was lying in the same bed Sherlock had used earlier in the day. The pillow still smelled faintly of his hair, and a little bit like his sweat. It was an oddly comforting feeling.

But before John could think any more about it, he was asleep.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**_To be continued..._**

* * *

Notes:

I actually wanted to write more, but then I would have had to end with a cliffhanger and you would have lynched me. And I didn't want to make you wait any longer for the new chapter.

I think this way is better all round.

I hope you'll forgive me that not much happened in this chapter. I kind of just liked hearing myself 'talk'. Sorry.

By the way – there will be no update next Monday. I'm on holiday without internet.


	7. The Blogger's Scar

**Chapter 7: The Blogger's Scar**

* * *

The night passed quietly. Sherlock actually woke John in order to turn the watch over to him.

At first, John – thick with sleep upon waking up – didn't even notice that Sherlock didn't take the second bed, instead waiting until John got up so he could snuggle into the still-warm bedding.

It wasn't until after his second cup of coffee that John realised what had happened. However, he didn't allow himself to brood over it; instead, he attributed Sherlock's behaviour to the fact that it was really quite chilly in the uninsulated cabin at night. A pre-warmed bed was almost a necessity under such circumstances.

After his third cup of coffee, he had even almost convinced himself, as over the course of the hours, a humid chill crept in through every chink in the walls and into John's jumper. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he and Sherlock had shared a bed. Not in the conventional manner, but ... still.

John was relieved when the sun rose, as it meant an end to the darkness, an end to the uncertainty of waiting and watching, and hopefully an end to the disagreeable temperatures as well. He stood up, stretched and shook out his cramped limbs a bit, and went to the window to catch the first weak rays of the sun. He and Sherlock had spent the entire night in complete darkness, in order not to present a target to Moran, should he have caught up to them earlier than expected.

As he was standing at the window, John's eye fell on the secret compartment, which was still hanging open. Curious, he peered inside. In the feeble light of the rising sun, he saw that Sherlock had returned the syringe to its place – but it was now snapped in half. John looked further inside, and saw the expected paraphernalia: a candle, lighter, spoon, a rusty razor blade, a thin rubber hose to wrap around the arm. He sighed. At least Sherlock had destroyed the syringe. But then he saw something else. He felt carefully around in the small space, and pulled out a small black notebook. John pursed his lips in order to whistle in surprise, but stopped so as not to wake Sherlock. He himself used to keep a list of his girlfriends' names, telephone numbers, and addresses in a similar notebook. He checked behind him. Sherlock was still asleep. Perfect. With a grin born of lascivious curiosity, he opened the book.

Sherlock's fastidious handwriting – the one he used when something was important to him, not the one that was worthy of a doctor's scrawl – jumped out at him on the first page, along with a detailed drawing of a wild bee. Surprised, John flipped ahead. The teenage Sherlock had noted his observations about bees on every page. Countless meticulous drawings illustrated his remarks. Sherlock hadn't lied when he'd told John yesterday what he used to do here in the woods. Not at all. John's eye fell on the syringe again, and for the first time he asked himself what had happened to this eager boy – filled with scientific curiosity – to make first a junkie out of him and then create the man lying in the next room, who had laid his life over and over, with unshaking faith, in John's hands.

Lost in thought, John flipped through more pages until he came to the first sketches of human anatomy. Yes, right ... hands, feet ... oh ... lips. John grinned. Puberty. He was prepared to see breasts and legs next, but he hadn't counted on the really rather lifelike and extremely detailed reproduction of a penis that sprang out at him on the following page. Heat rose to his face. Whose penis could it be? Sherlock's? More heat. And not just in his face.

He shouldn't go any further. He should respect Sherlock's privacy. Yeah, right. Good one! Since when did Sherlock respect his privacy? John struggled briefly with himself before turning the page – although only after checking once more over his shoulder.

A picture of a young man ... legs ... another penis ... oh ... two penises ... a name – Victor? Who was Victor?

John turned more pages, and then closed the book and put it firmly back into the hidden compartment. It was none of his business what Sherlock and Victor might have done together, or what Sherlock wished they had done together. But despite exercising all of his willpower, he couldn't get the image of the highly erotic drawing depicting the sexual union of two young men out of his head.

At least that answered one question. Sherlock had been interested exclusively in wild bees, and then exclusively in his own gender – therefore, Sherlock had known full well what he had offered John the previous night.

Good God – had that really only been two nights ago? It seemed much longer, and at the same time shorter. But that was nothing new. Whenever he was with Sherlock, time thumbed its nose at all laws of physics and no longer ran in a straight line.

John closed his eyes; his head was spinning. Then he opened them again and looked somewhat helplessly around the room, until he remembered he'd seen some soap and towels in a cupboard next to the toilet the day before. Just what he needed. A cold shower. Or at least a cold sponge bath at the well behind the cabin. He took off his jumper and shirt, and set off to look for the necessary accoutrements.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

Just as John was drying off his bare chest, Sherlock came around the corner of the cabin, and stopped abruptly.

"Good morning, Sherlock," John greeted him.

"Shoe..." Sherlock's voice, usually so smooth, came out squeaky. He cleared his throat and repeated in his normal register: "Shoelaces. Your shoelaces are untied."

John looked down, saw the loose ends, and crouched down to tie his shoes properly.

"It could be disastrous later on... in the forest..." Sherlock fell silent again, and John started to wonder what was going on. Sherlock wasn't usually so distracted.

"Yes, you're right," was all he ended up saying. "I don't need to trip over my own feet on top of everything else. Although..." He grinned and straightened up. "Might still happen. With these shoes." He was still wearing the patent leather shoes - suitable for his wedding and morning suit, not so much for a breakneck chase through the forest. "Mycroft might really have thought to get me a pair of shoes."

The suggestion of a rueful smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "_Mea culpa_," he said softly. "Mycroft had nothing to do with it. I made a list of things I thought would be ... useful. But obviously I ... made a mess of it. I didn't think of gloves, a leather jacket, or sensible footwear."

John wasn't used to Sherlock being so ... critical of himself, and started to feel uneasy.

"It'll be fine. It's worked up to now," he reassured his friend.

Sherlock seemed to regain control over himself. "Where's the gun?" he asked in sudden alarm.

"Here," John replied, rolling his eyes, and patted his back. "Safe and sound in my waistband."

"Good," Sherlock breathed out in relief. "Good."

A silence arose between the two men. It wasn't really uncomfortable, but it was one that John didn't quite understand. An odd look had come into Sherlock's eyes; finally, his friend's lips parted, slowly, hesitantly, and he broke the silence with two quiet words: "Your scar..."

John glanced down at his shoulder.

"Yeah? What... what about it?" he asked, bewildered.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked embarrassed. "I never saw it before."

"I don't believe that!" John cried, laughing. "That's ... There must have been hundreds of times..." He broke off when Sherlock shook his head cautiously and with something like regret. "Really?"

Sherlock stepped closer, until he was standing right in front of John. He raised his right hand.

"May I?" he asked softly.

John swallowed. Having Sherlock so close confused him. He nodded.

"Yeah, sure. Any time. You only... needed to ask."

Sherlock's gaze was intense, flickering briefly to John's eyes before concentrating on his shoulder.

"I thought your scar was a taboo topic," he said with an unusually gentle yet admonishing voice.

"I don't know..." John said as he regarded Sherlock with wide eyes. Sherlock had actually respected a boundary? A boundary that John hadn't even known he'd set? "Maybe... at first..."

Just then, the tips of Sherlock's fingers brushed his scar with a feather-light touch, and all coherent thought vanished from John's brain.

John knew it was impossible to feel that ghostly contact – he'd touched the dead tissue often enough himself and felt next to nothing. How could it be that Sherlock's touch affected him so deeply?

The practised fingers slid with something approaching tenderness over the injured, scarred, and healed area of his body, leaving aftershocks in his nerve endings, as if John had come too close to a flame that was too bright; too hot.

A single phrase penetrated John's trance-like state.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered.

John blinked up at him, lightheaded, but Sherlock still had his gaze directed downward.

"You're welcome ... I..."

"I wasn't talking to you," Sherlock said.

"You weren't ... Who were you talking to then?"

"Your scar," Sherlock whispered softly, and looked up.

Sherlock's pale eyes were usually placid, like a forest lake on a frosty morning. But at the moment they were closer to a stormy, agitated sea – one on which any ship would have been hopelessly lost.

"Why?" John asked, his voice sounding rough to his own ears.

A wistful smile formed on Sherlock's lips.

"It brought you back. Back to London. To me. Without it ... I never would have ..." Sherlock bent his head in an impulsive gesture and breathed a kiss directly onto the scar before looking up again.

John felt as if he were drowning in those eyes. "Sherlock..." he whispered in amazement, and there was a reverent kind of wonder in Sherlock's eyes that John had never seen there before.

"John..." Sherlock whispered, and John's heart thudded so hard in his chest that he thought he was going to suffocate.

The loud crack of a shot tore through the early-morning quiet, and a bullet whizzed past close to their heads.

"Into the house!" John shouted.

"No, we'd be trapped in there!" Sherlock objected, grabbed John's hand, and pulled him along with him. "This way!"

Together, they ran into the forest. Another shot missed them as well, and then they were shielded from the sniper's view by trees and bushes.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

John's lungs were burning; he cursed to himself. He simply wasn't as fit as he'd been during his more active years, when he'd chased after Sherlock regularly. Why had he let himself go so much over the past two years?

"Sherlock," he gasped, and luckily Sherlock understood. He ran to a scrub-covered hill and waved to John to follow. When he'd reached the bushes, his eyes flitted frantically around, looking for something, until he apparently made a decision and pulled some branches apart, calling in a muted voice, "In here..."

John hurried to follow and crawled between the branches. He was amazed to discover that there was a kind of cave dug into the hill. It was a little over a metre high and two metres wide, and about the same depth.

A hand touched his hip, and John jerked around. Sherlock had crawled in after him, and was in need of space as well. Hurriedly, John scooted over to one side as Sherlock crouched down next to him on the ground.

"Yours?" John asked.

"Halcyon childhood days," Sherlock retorted sarcastically. "We can't stay here long."

John nodded. "Where to?"

"We have to get to the rendezvous point." Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, and he fell into a ruminative pose. "Why was there no warning?" he swore softly. "How was Moran able to get so close to us undisturbed?"

A thought occurred to John. "Where's your phone?" he asked Sherlock.

An alarmed and dismayed gaze met his.

"In the cabin – on the table," Sherlock murmured. "Oh, how utterly ... _stupid_!"

John sighed. "It's all right... At least I took the gun."

Sherlock buried his hands in his hair, frustrated. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_," he muttered to himself, cursing heartily.

"That's not going to help, Sherlock!" John interrupted his friend's tirade in a sharp voice.

A shudder went through Sherlock's body. "Yes, you're right. We need to keep going. The rendezvous point is approximately in this direction. This stretch of flat ground should be safe. Relatively, anyway. After that it's uphill. Not much vegetation. That will be more critical. Right after that is the ravine with the creek. If we can get there ... we'll have made it. Moran will no doubt follow our trail..." Sherlock bit his lip pensively. "As he should," he concluded grimly. He nodded to John. "Ready to go?"

"Ready," John said firmly.

But they hadn't gone more than a couple of hundred metres further through the forest before Sherlock stopped again.

"What is it?" John asked.

"This," Sherlock said, bent over, and pulled a lifeless body out from the underbrush.

A man in camouflage.

"Our security detail?" John couldn't help asking the somewhat smug question.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Dammit!"

John knelt down next to the man and gave him a quick once-over before standing up again. "He's alive."

Sherlock's head jerked around. "What?"

"He's alive. Just unconscious. I can't tell from what. I can't smell any chloroform anyway."

"Maybe in his food ... or water, or..."

"Sherlock, that doesn't matter now," John said, and took the unconscious man's radio. He didn't see a weapon. "Do we need the binoculars too?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Too much ballast. Moran's probably succeeded in taking out most of them. He's good. He's very good," he said furiously, then waved to John. "Come on. We have to keep going."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

They made it to the edge of the valley without any further incident, and hunkered down behind a bush.

"Do you see anything?" John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head, tense, and peered through the branches.

"No sign of either Moran or our supposed guards. I'm afraid we're going to have to show ourselves."

"That's suicide!" John protested in a low voice. "And you know it."

"And it's an opportunity to catch Moran. Maybe the only one we're going to have. I'm going out. You stay here."

"Forget it!"

Sherlock looked at him intently, made a face as if he were going to disagree, and finally held out a hand in silent resignation. John took it wordlessly and pressed it firmly. Then they let go and stepped out into the clearing.

Almost immediately, a man in camouflage rose up out of a hole that had been covered with leaves and branches not five metres away from them. The man held a weapon in both hands at hip level. In that single split second, John identified it as a semi-automatic military assault rifle being aimed at Sherlock.

But before any shots fell, John shoved Sherlock hard in the ribs, causing his friend to lurch to the side. He himself got his dress shoes tangled in something and fell over. The report of a shot rang in John's ears, and a raging pain bit through his left thigh. Someone screamed, and as if through a foggy mist, John saw Sherlock spring up, throw himself on Moran and wrestle him to the ground with his bare hands.

John raised himself up laboriously, his teeth gritted against the pain. A dull slapping sound penetrated the cotton that his ears seemed to be stuffed with, and he realised that Sherlock was hammering his bare fists over and over into Moran's face.

"Sherlock!" John wanted to scream, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. "You're going to kill him!"

Sherlock whipped around and ran back to John. His face was chalk-white.

"John!" he croaked. "John!"

"It's nothing. Just a scratch," John tried to calm both himself and Sherlock. But when Sherlock carefully felt over John's leg, he winced in pain. "Hurts like hell though," he admitted.

"I think you're right. Clean penetration, hardly more than a graze. But you're bleeding heavily ... wait... " Sherlock pulled the t-shirt he'd been wearing since the previous morning over his head and tore off a strip with his teeth. He folded the remainder of the shirt into a narrow bundle and pressed it against the wound, fixing the makeshift bandage in place with the torn-off strip as well as he could.

"Thanks," John sighed, and lay back carefully on the damp forest floor. The adrenaline was doing its job, so that he barely noticed how cold the ground on his bare skin actually was. But he knew he couldn't stay there forever. The risk of hypothermia was too great. He was just about to point that out to Sherlock when the other man stood up abruptly.

Sherlock went over to Moran's lifeless body, picked up the weapon, fiddled with it for a while, and then murmured, "Ah... it jammed." Finally there was a click, and then a shot. Then Sherlock was at John's side again.

"Is he dead?" John asked, his eyes closed.

"No," came the answer in Sherlock's ice-cold, unconcerned voice. "He would deserve it, but I only shot him in the ankle so he can't get away."

"You're an idiot," John muttered. "If his gun hadn't jammed, then..." He swallowed. "How could you have acted so rash?"

"If you hadn't pushed me..."

"If you'd remembered better shoes, I wouldn't have slipped and..."

"Give me the radio," Sherlock cut him off roughly. "We need to get you an ambulance."

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**

* * *

Notes: Regarding the final scene in the forest... I stole like a magpie from Arthur Conan Doyle himself in "The Three Garridebs".


	8. The Dissembling Detective

**Chapter 8: **

**The Dissembling Detective **

John was lying in a rather luxurious private room in a London hospital, the wound on his thigh having been cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. John had the sneaking suspicion Mycroft had something to do with the fact that he was being treated like a prince.

Sherlock had stuck to his side the whole time. When the doctors had asked him to clear out so they could do their job, he'd almost thrown a tantrum, and it had very nearly taken the threat of armed force to get him to leave John for even that short time. Only when John called him to sharply order had he submitted to leaving the room. But he was right there again as soon as John was brought up to the private room.

This had earned them some odd looks from the hospital staff, but it was nothing compared to the grins they'd been subjected to from the paramedics in the forest after Sherlock called for help with the unconscious soldier's radio.

John couldn't really blame the men. After all, he and Sherlock were standing around in the middle of the woods, both red in the face and shirtless; or rather: lying around. Although John knew why his face was so hot ... he was running a low fever on account of the gunshot wound – but God only knew why Sherlock was flushed. However, the pain in John's leg made him remarkably indifferent to the question.

Only now, as Sherlock was falling asleep on a chair next to John's bed, did the question elbow its way to the forefront of John's thoughts again. But when Sherlock jerked back upright for the third time after nodding off, John shoved his tangled thoughts back down. The excitement of the past few days was apparently taking its toll on Sherlock.

"Sherlock – go home," John said with a trace of impatience in his voice. "Get some sleep. You can't do anything for me here. I'm fine." _And maybe I can finally ring Mary without you hovering like a vulture_, he added to himself.

"No, no... it's fine," Sherlock murmured through a hearty yawn. A sympathetic nurse had loaned Sherlock a light blue scrub top, which looked ridiculous with the black leather trousers, but was better than constantly having to look at his naked chest.

John sighed in resignation. "At least go get a coffee!"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Sherlock... Moran's under arrest. Lestrade sent you the text. Everything's fine. I appreciate you worrying, but nothing's going to happen if you leave me alone for five minutes."

Sherlock looked guilty and bit at his lip. "That's not the reason," he said defensively, but it didn't sound very convincing.

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock glared back but finally stood up.

"Do you want anything?"

John shook his head, and Sherlock left after glancing over once more to make sure the windows were secure.

John exhaled in relief and folded his arms back behind his head.

Sherlock.

What might have happened this morning at the well if Moran hadn't shot at them? John ran his tongue over his lips. Would they have...? And if so... would that have been smart?

While he was in the middle of these half-articulated thoughts, the door to his room opened and a familiar figure with an umbrella came in.

"Hello, Mycroft..." John greeted him unenthusiastically, if with some surprise.

"Good morning, John. How are we feeling?" Mycroft inquired – polite as ever – and took a seat on Sherlock's chair.

"Well, thanks..." John replied hesitantly. He couldn't imagine what Mycroft wanted. He certainly wasn't about to apologise for the ruined wedding; that wasn't Mycroft's style. "Erm... Sherlock's not here right now, but if you'd like to wait? He just went to get some..."

Mycroft didn't let him continue. "I really hate to interrupt you, John, but Sherlock's absence is precisely what I was waiting for. Our time is short, so please do excuse me for coming directly to the point."

John watched him, wide-eyed, his curiosity growing by the moment. "Oh, please... be my guest."

Mycroft smirked at him but didn't comment on John's obvious sarcasm. "Thank you," he said impassively. "I presume you are now aware of how much you mean to my brother."

"Of course," John replied, nonplussed. "His friendship..."

Mycroft interrupted again. "Friendship?" he echoed a bit too loud, then groaned and closed his eyes for a moment, pained. "Oh, no... so he still hasn't..." He shook his head and then seemed to come to a decision. He looked John directly in the eye, which made John somewhat uneasy. "John. What Sherlock feels for you..."

But just then, Sherlock reappeared with a cardboard cup in one hand and a murderous glint in his eye at the sight of his brother.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?" he snarled at him.

"I'm trying to do you a favour," Mycroft said, unfazed.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft turned back to John and picked up the thread of the conversation, unconcerned. "As I was saying, John, what Sherlock feels..."

"Mycroft! I'm warning you!" Sherlock cried. The cup in his hand was shaking.

Still the embodiment of calm, Mycroft continued serenely: "After he explained everything, even you must have understood..."

"That's enough!" Sherlock yelled, furious. "That doesn't concern anyone here!" Unable to control himself, he hurled the cardboard cup at the wall, where it left an ugly brown stain.

John watched everything unfold from his bed with his mouth agape. He'd long since forgotten about the faint, throbbing pain in his leg, and awaited the resolution of the scene with anticipation. What in the world was Mycroft talking about? Could it be that...

"You had your chance and you let it pass you by without so much as opening your mouth!" Mycroft barked at his brother. John seemed to be forgotten for the moment. "It's my turn now, and you, dear brother, are on temporary hiatus!"

Sherlock's eyes shot daggers and his clenched fists trembled. But, amazingly, he remained silent. His mouth, compressed into a thin, angry line, stayed closed.

"After he explained _what_?" John prompted impatiently.

Mycroft blinked from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock. His expression was inscrutable, but boded nothing good.

"My God, Sherlock! You didn't even tell him _that_?" he rounded on his brother.

"He didn't ask! He didn't want to hear it!" Sherlock threw back at him sullenly.

"_What_ did I not want to hear?" John cried, exasperated.

Mycroft gave his brother one last irate-impatient look before returning his attention to John. "Were you really never curious as to why Sherlock jumped? Why he faked his suicide?" he asked – once again utterly calm, and with his usual arrogant condescension.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. "For the last time..."

"Oh, do shut up, Sherlock. You don't scare me," Mycroft spat, not deigning to so much as look at his brother, whose entire body was now shaking.

John felt around in the covers for the little nurse's call box, just to be on the safe side. He didn't relax until he had it in his left hand, no longer feeling completely helpless in the current situation. His gaze slid from Sherlock to Mycroft, who still seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"Erm... well..." John began hesitantly. "He just said it was an elegant solution to everything."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighed in irritation and then said briskly, "He jumped because there were three snipers. If he hadn't jumped, there would have been three corpses."

"Three..." John repeated hollowly, and swallowed. His gaze immediately went to Sherlock, who was standing as stiffly as a pillar of salt. "One of them would have been me?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock's pale face and frozen pose following his screaming and ranting were eerie and surreal. He clenched his jaw, but finally nodded.

"And that's why..." John began, turning to Mycroft for confirmation as his brain slowly started to comprehend.

"That's why he had to go to ground afterwards. It had to look real. Completely real," Mycroft finished coolly.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock said softly, almost pleading. Neither his voice nor his posture betrayed any sign of the angry outburst that had taken place mere seconds earlier.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked brusquely. "Are you finally prepared to confess everything to him? Or shall I also tell him how you repeatedly hacked into my surveillance cameras' server?"

A spark of anger reignited in Sherlock. "You will do nothing of the sort!" he gritted out through clenched teeth.

"Why would that be so bad?" John asked, puzzled. He'd thought he'd understood, but now he had the sense that he was feeling his way blindly through a fog. He hated it when the two brothers had conversations like this. It always made him feel like the village idiot. "He hacked into the system... so what? It wouldn't be the first time," he pointed out.

"So what?" Mycroft repeated, a bit annoyed. "It didn't do him any good, that's for certain."

"Mycroft... please..." And there it was again – that quiet, atypical pleading; John didn't understand what was going on any more.

"He only looked at footage of you," Mycroft answered John's question.

"Me? I don't..."

"Repeatedly!" Mycroft confirmed emphatically. The memory of what Sherlock had done seemed to incense him. "I was quite cross about it. It... weakened him."

Sherlock pushed his chin forward defiantly. "I was homesick. So?"

"Homesick!" Mycroft snorted derisively. "Don't make me laugh! I hope you're finally man enough to tell him everything now." And with that rather cryptic remark, he stood up and turned to go. "Good-bye, John. Sherlock." He nodded to them and hastily left the room.

Silence fell over the hospital room. John tried to catch Sherlock's eye, but he just sank his head and avoided John's gaze.

John cleared his throat and picked nervously at the bedsheet. "So you jumped to save my life?" he finally asked.

Sherlock continued to avoid his eye. "Yes," he said softly and nodded.

John blinked and chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Who else?"

"Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." Sherlock took a deep breath. "John... I..."

John shook his head, not letting him finish. A somewhat desperate laugh played around the corners of his mouth, but he didn't feel at all like laughing. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock turned away to stare out the window. He was holding his hands behind his back, so tightly that John could see his knuckles turning white.

"Because I... didn't want..." Sherlock began haltingly, and took another breath. "I wanted to avoid any sense of indebtedness on your part... that you would feel obligated ... that you might, out of a false sense of gratitude..." He released his hands in order to run them through his unruly curls. "If it had been up to me, you never would have found out!" he said, agitated, and finally turned back to John. "But Mycroft had to stick his nose in and ruin everything!" His voice sounded bitter, and his eyes looked empty and hollow.

John's heart cramped at the sight.

"And why didn't you ever tell me that you... love me?" It was a bit of a risky question, as neither of the brothers had mentioned the word _'love'_, but it was the only possible conclusion John could draw, and he hoped he hadn't just made a complete fool of himself.

But Sherlock didn't deny it. Desperation entered his eyes, but the bitter twist to his mouth remained.

"Love makes you... _weak_," he responded slowly, and with great self-contempt. "You heard Mycroft... He's right. It weakened me. _Longing_ for... _you_..." He broke off and looked away from John again. "Love... is for losers..."

John closed his eyes briefly, and in that split second made a decision he knew would turn his entire life upside-down – and part of him hoped he would never have reason to regret it.

"Not if it's returned," John said in a steady voice.

"What?" Sherlock sounded disbelieving. He raised his head to look at John. His expression spoke of a complete lack of understanding, and yet beneath the confusion was a deep yearning ... a tiny ray of hope...

John shook his head with an indulgent smile. "Did that immense brain of yours never consider that I might... that your feelings might be returned?"

Sherlock licked his lips. It was clear that he was still struggling to believe John's words. The fear of disappointment was practically written all over his face, and John cursed the wound which made it impossible for him to get out of bed in order to assuage Sherlock's fears – and not just with words.

"No... it's not possible..." Sherlock rebuffed his statement with a gruff voice. "It's probably just curiosity... or your libido ... or some sense of guilt..."

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock fell silent. "You know, I think I know myself pretty well, and I'd say it's love when not a day goes by that I don't think of you," he answered blithely. "Not a single day in the past two years where my first thought on waking wasn't of you."

"Really?" The whisper was full of awestruck amazement.

"Yes," John said simply.

Sherlock stood, motionless, in the middle of the room, apparently unprepared for this turn of events – apparently not even hoping for it. Something like helplessness showed on his face.

"And ... now?" he asked uncertainly, and John couldn't help smirking.

"Now you could, for example, lock the door so that no one disturbs us when we kiss," he suggested with good humour.

"_Kiss_..." Sherlock echoed the word as if it were in a foreign language he'd never heard before.

"Yes, kiss," John repeated with an amused smile. "Because that's exactly what I've wanted to do since the moment you thanked my scar," he admitted.

At those words, Sherlock awakened as if from a trance, and went straight to the door. There was no lock, but Sherlock shoved a chair under the handle to form an effective barricade.

No sooner had he done so than he was standing beside John's bed, and lay down next to him without further ado.

John had to laugh in the face of such a blatant display of impatience, but once they'd arranged all of their arms and legs to their mutual satisfaction, all sense of haste disappeared as their eyes met.

Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow, but it wasn't a wildfire that raged in the dark pupils; instead, it was a gentle blaze that warmed John's heart.

He took Sherlock's face tenderly between his hands and gave him a brief, intimate kiss on his surprisingly soft lips.

"_More_..." Sherlock breathed before John had even completely pulled back.

John's lips stretched into an affectionate smile.

"I don't know of anything I'd rather do..." he whispered, and lowered his mouth once again to Sherlock's, where he was impatiently awaited.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**

The next chapter will fully justify the story rating. So you can look forward to that.


	9. The Passionate Patient

**Chapter 9: The Passionate Patient **

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

The first few kisses the two men shared were tender and affectionate. They took their time, enjoyed exploring, discovering, and caressing each other.

Soon, though, those gentle kisses weren't enough. For Sherlock especially, impatience and fervour soon entered into the embraces they exchanged, but John was also hyperaware of having another body close to him after the long months of abstinence. When Sherlock's hands slid nervously and with a certain degree of hesitance over John's arms – up and down, up and down ... stroking, demanding – John finally released his lips for more than a breath from Sherlock's sinfully delectable mouth.

"Sherlock... I know..." he whispered in an attempt to calm his beloved, but the hoarse sound of his quiet words apparently only served to egg Sherlock further on, as he began to attack John's neck with his lips, tongue and teeth.

"God...Sherlock! This ... is a ... hospital," John stammered. Both heat and cold swept over him as Sherlock honed in on every single one of his erogenous zones (at least the ones on his neck and throat) and stimulated them mercilessly. "We can't..."

"Oh yes, we can," Sherlock breathed out over John's kiss-damp skin. "We can and we will." It almost sounded like a growl, making the fine hairs on John's arms stand up with a delicious shiver.

John was overcome by the frustrating feeling of wanting but not being able to. How long had he felt this way about Sherlock? _Always_, he answered himself. _He always had_. He'd just never given in to it. He'd cut off his own emotions, denied and suppressed them. He'd only dated women in order not to give in to the temptation to sexualise the male body – which would have included Sherlock. He'd thought he could steer his sexuality, forget about his bisexuality – or bury it, as Sherlock had done often enough. How wrong he had been!

"Sherlock ... I don't think I'm really able to right now," John pointed out. Good God! If he didn't keep a cool head, he was liable to forget himself, despite everything... John bit his lip. It was bloody difficult to think rationally while Sherlock's unexpectedly hot hands were rubbing over his body, leaving a burning trail of desolation behind. "My leg... I was shot, in case you've forgotten," he reminded him, mildly chastening.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, causing John to shudder under the intensity of his gaze. There was a slight flicker of a guilty conscience, but also a dark appetite paired with deep longing.

A turbulent light shone in Sherlock's pale eyes.

"John..." he whispered. "Please.. I... want to... be close to you." He bit down on his lips. Wanted to take the words back, say them differently. But even after feverish reconsideration, he couldn't think of anything better. It was the quintessence of his desire. He wanted to be close to John. After nearly two years of being separated from him, the yearning for physical closeness was almost unquenchable. Sherlock wondered now how he'd managed to do without him for so long. Without John, who had shared his life so reliably, no _ifs_, _ands_ or _buts_, who had always been at his side, who had always grounded him and been his moral compass.

The emotions were strangely familiar. It was almost like during puberty – that incredibly horrid phase when his head and his body had pulled him in completely opposite directions. That phase when desires and needs had arisen that neither his brain nor his heart could keep up with. Re-experiencing those irritations as an adult was confusing. His body wanted things that his intellect would normally disclaim. But what he felt for John wasn't even close to anything he'd ever felt for anyone else. He'd also never met anyone like John before ... he was unique. And as such, the exception to the rule he'd made for himself. The rule that said he would only dedicate himself to the Work. Now he wanted to dedicate himself to John. Without ulterior motive, without a safety net or escape route.

He wanted to feel John. To be one with him. No matter how.

He got up from the bed on unsteady legs and rummaged through the drawers and cabinets in the hospital room, his hands trembling.

"What... what are you doing?" John asked.

"We're in a hospital. There must be... ah, gloves... perfect... And this? Ultrasound gel. I think that..." Sherlock turned around to face John and fell silent.

For a few heartbeats, time seemed to stand still and stretch out forever.

Their eyes met ... sank into each other ... stored the image of that most precious person, and locked it irreversibly into their memories.

They didn't just perceive the outward shell (the flushed cheeks, the moist, parted lips, the shining eyes still betraying their astonishment, the unruly hair, the barely visible throbbing of the jugular), but they also caught a clear glimpse behind the facade. Of wounded souls, injured feelings, unfulfilled desires; of old scars and fresh scabs. Unwittingly, they entered into a solemn promise that bound their hearts to each other and gave them – still unable to fully comprehend their luck – an assurance they had never known before.

"John," Sherlock whispered softly, closing his eyes to commit this moment to his memory palace forever. He only opened them again when he heard John's whispered "_Yes_" in return.

A shudder ran through Sherlock's limbs, causing him to tremble. He became distantly aware of the items he was holding in his hands, and he returned to John. He held out the gloves and the gel, and John took them.

"I think you know..." Sherlock began, but couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence.

"Yeah, I have a vague idea," John responded dryly. The slight twinkle in his eye was enough to calm and encourage Sherlock, despite the mocking tone.

Sherlock removed his shoes and socks, and took off his leather trousers. His pants followed quickly thereafter, adding to the pile of clothing on the floor. Naked from the waist down, he climbed back onto John's bed and knelt to sit over his lap.

A dual sigh filled the room as their erections touched, hesitantly rubbed against each other, and the desire for closeness and tenderness was slowly but surely overtaken by arousal and lust.

Their slow, sensuous, circular movements filled both men with increasing desire.

"John..." Sherlock sighed, leaned forward and sealed John's lips with a remarkably hot kiss that finally set John's passion free.

"My God, Sherlock..." John moaned when Sherlock released his lips and enclosed both of their erections with his hand.

John gasped for air as Sherlock's gentle strokes caused feverish tingles of arousal to shoot through his groin.

The first proof of their desire gathered at the tips of their erections, to be massaged into heated skin with a careful thumb.

The pressure from Sherlock's fingers increased, his massaging motions became faster, his respiration increased, and a faint redness rose to his cheeks.

It was an incredible sight, and an even more incredible feeling, and John was lost in both. He was gripped by a deep, unsettling longing, and he put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer. He licked across the full lips, which opened readily to him, and then he kissed Sherlock with a hunger he had never felt before in his life.

He was distantly aware of unsteady fingers pressing the forgotten gel and a glove into his hand.

"John..." Sherlock whispered into their kiss, and John heard himself whisper, "Okay," in return.

Without ending the kiss, John put on the glove – with a bit of difficulty – and smeared some of the gel onto two of his fingers. Carefully, he stroked Sherlock's thigh and slid his hand up until he felt his opening through the thin latex covering his fingertips.

Sherlock broke the kiss and held himself stock still. He was breathing in and out deeply, and closed his eyes, biting his lip. John watched him, completely enthralled. He felt a slight pressure pushing back against his fingers and then felt the muscles relax and give. Both of his fingers slid without difficulty deep into Sherlock's silky soft interior, and Sherlock sighed in contentment. His hand – which had stopped moving – resumed stroking lightly over both of their erections.

"Oh my God," John groaned softly, and pressed his head deeper into the pillow he was lying on. He could feel Sherlock's pulse in time with his motions. The heat surrounding his fingers only served to increase the fire between his legs. He could feel Sherlock's stiff member throbbing against his own cock, and his hips jerked forward automatically. With his free hand, he reached under the scrub top that Sherlock was still wearing and rubbed over his chest.

Sherlock threw his head back and let out a long moan.

Passionate desire raced through John's entire body. Individual flames blazed and flared up, higher and faster, until he thought his lungs would burst and his fingers would either melt into Sherlock or break, so tight was the grip of Sherlock's musculature on them.

Then a tremor ran through Sherlock's slender body.

John felt the halting jerks around his fingers, which were still deeply buried inside Sherlock. Once, twice, three times ... a gasping breath that sounded like a sob ... a broken voice whispering, "_John_," ... and white semen spurting onto John's body.

John bit down on his lip, his own climax just a hair's breadth away. Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's cock but when their motion resumed, it was almost bashful and weak.

John groaned. It wasn't enough. His free hand closed around Sherlock's fingers automatically, guided them in a faster rhythm up and down over his hard shaft.

Oh yeah... there it was... John's eyes closed, his mouth opened in a silent cry... His hips jerked, thrusting over and over into the narrow ring formed by his and Sherlock's fingers, and finally the wave of his lust broke over him and he emptied himself, pulsing over their intertwined hands.

It took a while for either man to show any sign of life.

Sherlock grimaced when John pulled his fingers out of his arse.

"Ouch," he complained softly, and glared at John through his exhaustion.

"What about me," John nipped any further protest in the bud. "You almost crushed my fingers."

Sherlock's expression as he stretched seemed to say, _'So what – it was worth it.'_

"Was it at least adequate?" John asked, amused. "Did it meet your usual high standards?"

A broad grin appeared on Sherlock's face – so broad that even his eyes gleamed.

"More than adequate," he stated easily.

"Was that praise I heard?" John teased. It only occurred to John at that moment that Sherlock was lying on his leg, and that it hurt like hell. How could he not have noticed that before? Oh, right – endorphins.

"Ow, bloody hell, Sherlock! Get off..." At the sight of the bloodstain on the bandage, John sighed.

Sherlock stood by the bed, stricken, still wearing only the borrowed top, and murmured guiltily, "It's bleeding again. My fault... I'm sorry."

John carefully felt his leg. At worst, the stitches had torn.

"No, you're not," he replied absently. "You'd do it again."

"I don't regret it," Sherlock agreed. "But I am sorry. I shouldn't have... This is all my fault."

John lifted his head and saw Sherlock looking dejectedly at the floor. All of a sudden, it all seemed so absurd - Sherlock's naked legs sticking out from under the nurse's top, his gunshot wound, the fantastic sex they'd just had – that John broke out in snorts of laughter. Sherlock responded with an uncertain, slightly irritated smile and a furrowed brow. Apparently he didn't understand what had caused John's fit of lightheartedness.

"Your fault – or your credit," John giggled once he'd gotten himself halfway under control again. "Depends on your point of view. Come on, get dressed. I want to ring for a nurse. The bandage needs to be changed and the wound looked at. And then we have to..." John sighed. What he was about to say was certain to ruin the mood, but he didn't have a choice. "We have some things to discuss," he said firmly.

"Like?" Sherlock pulled his leather trousers up over his hips as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh, there's the small matter of my fiancée!" John retorted somewhat louder than he'd intended. "And I have a bone or two to pick with you over my wedding. Don't think that you..."

Sherlock had been watching him intently, and interrupted him now with a cry of annoyance.

"Wedding?! That's just..." Another searching, calculating look. "John? Oh, no... John!" He paled. "You're not really going to get married?!"

John cast a stubborn glance at his beloved, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Yes, I am. I liked the idea."

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not!"

John pursed his lips. "We'll see," he said lightly. "I'll ask you at some point, and you'll eventually say yes."

Something like uncertainty flickered across Sherlock's face in light of John's assertiveness, but then he got himself under control again.

"Only if you wear a blue négligée," he said in reference to one of John's earlier remarks.

"I don't think so," John laughed. "I wouldn't look very good in it. But you'd look fetching. Maybe even better than..." John paled. "Oh God! Mary! Sherlock, we have to..." John's guilty conscience was written all over his face.

"_We_?" Sherlock asked coolly, raising one eyebrow.

"All right, fine – _me_," John allowed, irritated.

Sherlock's lips curled up, slightly disgusted.

"You were the one who wanted to get yourself into this whole mess! Now you'll have to get out of it yourself as well. And don't muck about too long. I'm not going to stand by for days on end and watch quietly while you try to break it to her gently..."

"I'll break it..." John interrupted Sherlock's tirade, annoyed, but then he fell silent in the middle of whatever he was about to say, as the sound of footsteps and loud voices drifted in from the hall.

"Speak of the devil..." Sherlock said – again with that unpleasant smile. Then he went to the door and took the chair away.

**oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo**

**To be continued...**


End file.
